


howling for my baby

by havisham



Category: Völsunga saga | Saga of the Volsungs
Genre: (attempted), Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Psychic Wolves, Revenge, Telepathy, Werewolf Double Incest, Werewolves, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: They put on wolf-skins and become beasts. Or were they always that?
Relationships: Sinfjötli/Sigmund (Völsunga Saga)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	howling for my baby

It was no one’s fault that the wolf skin Sigmund chose was that of a she-wolf, and that Sinfjötli chose one of her mate’s. Wolves were wolves, after all, and were simpler creatures than the humans that wore their skins, with their tangled mess of bloodlines and obligations — and Sigmund and Sinfjötli’s bloodlines were more tangled than most. 

Crashing through the dark and cold woods clad in the wolf skins brought with it a fearsome joy that ran through Sinfjötli’s body. The magic made him powerful, made him merciless and inhumane. When he smelled smoke in the wind, he barked sharply at Sigmund at his back. His father understood and let him take point.

The group of hunters thought their bonfire would ward off evil things from attacking them. But that was far from the truth. Sinfjötli had no intention of letting any of the party live. It mattered not that deer were plumper, or bear’s flesh more rich. He hungered for human flesh. 

He did not know if it was the curse of the wolf pelt that pushed his thoughts in that direction or his own mind, half-wolf, half-human, maddened by hunger but longing for something familiar, even if it was forbidden. It did not matter -- the ends were the same.

As soon as the hunting party had fallen asleep, he and his father crept into the camp and clamped their jaws onto the necks of the hunters and crushed them. The first few were so surprised that they could not fight, but their struggles alerted the others. 

Soon, fires were lit and swords were drawn. The men stabbed at them, screaming, “Werewolves! Werewolves!” 

They knew exactly what Sinfjötli and Sigmund were, but this knowledge did not help them.

One by one, father and son killed the men and ate their flesh until there was only one left — the son of the leader, whose first hunt it was. The boy could not have been so much younger than Sinfjötli himself, but surrounded by the utter destruction of his clan, the boy’s mind seemed to have degenerated to a babyish degree. He tried to hide himself behind the ripped corpses of his father and uncles, much to Sinfjötli’s disgust. The smell of piss rose in the air, compounding it.

Sigmund pawed at the ground, indicating that he thought that the hunt was over, but Sinfjötli thought not. He approached the shaking boy and tried to take off the wolf pelt, to show him that the source of his fears walked on two legs, not four. 

But the skin stuck fast. Sinfjötli frowned. He gripped harder. Nothing happened. 

The boy had stopped crying. He was looking at Sinfjötli with dull eyes. Dead already. Sinfjötli lunged for him and opened his mouth full of knife-sharp teeth. But the boy suddenly moved and slashed at Sinfjötli’s eyes with an edge of a broken sword. He missed — but the hot bloom of blood was enough to startle Sinfjötli out of his blood-simple state. He yelped and his father surged forward to kill the boy.

 _No,_ Sinfjötli said, using the mind-speak that was like the scratching of bone against flesh. It felt wrong to speak, but he had to do it. He could feel his father’s rage and anxiety war against his own. _He was right to do it. Blood calls for blood._

They louped away, leaving the devastated boy to live or die as he wished. 

_I can’t get the wolf-pelt off_ , Sinfjötli told his father. _Can you?_

 _We have to go back to where we found the pelts_ , Sigmund told him and Sinfjötli agreed. For the first time since the ordeal started, he let his father take the lead. 

The cave with the discarded wolf-pelts was harder to find this time around. The snows had come and dulled the scents and covered tracks, but eventually, Sinfjötli and Sigmund found the place. They took turns trying to pry off the pelts from each other’s back but they could not. Their human forms were lost to them — they were trapped. 

_Is it because we fed on human flesh?_ Sinfjötli asked his father, pacing around the cave floor. 

Sigmund yawned and shook his head. _Who knows?_

He pawed at the dirt for a moment before laying down. _Go to sleep. We’ll find the answer tomorrow._

Sinfjötli continued to pace. His blood was up. He could not imagine being able to sleep, not during a night like this. He approached his father and nudged him with his nose. _I cannot sleep._

 _Try._ Sigmund bit at his nose. 

_I feel — I feel what you must have felt the night you lay with my mother._

Sigmund’s eyes, closed in half-slumber, opened wide. He bared his teeth, a growl low in his throat. _What do you mean by that?_

_I know the truth. I have known since she sent me away and you did not kill me as you did my brothers._

Sigmund growled softly. _Those children could not avenge the Völsung line. Only you can._

Sinfjötli smiled — or would have if he still had a human face to smile with — he was satisfied to know that he was indeed bred to be an instrument of revenge. It made all things, no matter how hideous, possible for him. 

_I cannot avenge the Völsung line as a wolf,_ Sinfjötli pointed out.

 _Mounting me and making pups wouldn’t do it either,_ replied his father.

_You are a sly man._

_I know that look. Your mother had the same one when she took me. But you are not as strong as she._

Sinfjötli could not bear the embarrassment no longer and fled the cave. When he came back, a day or so later, he found his father gone. He had brought down a rider and his horse, and went back to it. When he did, his father was there. They eyed each other warily over the corpse of the man, but eventually, as a sign of peace Sinfjötli offered his father a piece of the man’s tongue. 

Thus mollified, the pair went on to terrify the forest for many long months. Mostly, they hunted the men who strayed into the forest, either by the winding road that cut through it, or otherwise ventured forth with business of their own. It was easier to kill those men than it was to hunt deer or a bear. 

Sinfjötli found himself thinking less and less and forgetting more and more about his human life. It was easier to be a wolf. There was a fierce and wild joy to be had, racing through the forest. He was young and reckless and his body was strong. 

He wanted -- everything. He was starving and vicious. It did not matter who opposed him. He would devour them -- as a man or as a beast, and be devoured in his turn. There was no escaping his fate. 

**Author's Note:**

> Loooooook. This WIP has been in my files since *checks* January, 2019. I thought I might as well post it before the world ends. Sinfjötli is one of those messed up revenge boys (see: Mordred, Jason Todd sometimes, Edmund from King Lear, Loki from the MCU???) that I can't help but love. He was born to damage!! He has no other use!!! HE KNOWS THIS AND EMBRACES IT AND IT'S SO SAD. 
> 
> Anyway, if I could've sustained it, this horrible thing would've gone on, the Volsungs would've achieved their revenge, Signy would've burned them and their fuckin feelings, and eventually the boy Sinfjötli arbitrarily spares would have killed him in that fucking bizarre that he dies. Poison? Wine? What? Don't tell me, I don't want to know. 
> 
> ANYWAY. DID YOU READ THIS? I'M AMAZED.


End file.
